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Rich in Success, Rooted in Secrecy

STATE COLLEGE, Pa. — One of the great paradoxes of the Penn State scandal is evident on the face of Graham B. Spanier, the university’s ousted president.

“You know how he’s got that prizefighter’s nose?” said Michael Oriard, an associate dean at Oregon State and a close friend. “It’s from his father breaking it for him several times.”

Spanier earned academic renown with research on family relationships. Oriard said he has seen his friend lose his composure just once, after witnessing one child hurting another. A man like that, then, might be keenly attuned to protecting the powerless, the downtrodden, and Spanier’s defenders say he is.

Yet he and other administrators have been blamed for failing to act to stop Jerry Sandusky, a former assistant football coach who has been charged with 40 counts of child molestation, including rape. Two top Penn State administrators were charged with perjury, accused of lying about what they knew about Sandusky. Spanier and the university’s iconic head coach, Joe Paterno, have not been criminally charged, but on Nov. 9 Spanier left his job and Paterno was fired.

Spanier, who did not respond to interview requests, told a grand jury last spring that he was never told how serious the allegations against Sandusky were. With the Pennsylvania attorney general, the Education Department, the N.C.A.A. and the university’s board of trustees all conducting investigations into not only the sexual abuse allegations but the possibility of a cover-up, the actions — or inactions — of Spanier and others remain to be fully examined and made public.

On Monday, Ken Frazier, a member of Penn State’s board of trustees, announced that the former F.B.I. director Louis J. Freeh would lead an independent inquiry into the Sandusky scandal.

“No one, no one, is above scrutiny, including every member of the administration, every member of the board of trustees, and every employee of Penn State University,” Frazier said.

In his 16 years as president, Spanier and his administration had a history of circling the wagons in the face of criticism or scrutiny, fitting into what many say was an insular Penn State culture that preceded his tenure. It occurred when high-profile Penn State employees came under fire, when student actions threatened to embarrass the university, and when people sought to obtain information that almost any other public institution would be required to release.

That instinct might have accelerated Spanier’s downfall. On Nov. 5, when Gary Schultz, a senior vice president, and Tim Curley, the athletic director, were charged with perjury, Spanier released a statement saying he had “complete confidence” in their handling of the accusations against Sandusky — a statement that incensed university trustees, according to people briefed on their deliberations.

Paul McLaughlin said he experienced a prime example of that habit of closing ranks. A decade ago, he says, he told Penn State officials, including Spanier, a horrific story: years before, when he was a boy, a professor had sexually molested him repeatedly, sometimes on the Penn State campus. He even said he had a tape recording in which the professor, who still taught at the university, admitted to the abuse.

But McLaughlin said he was rebuffed.

“He told me whatever I wanted to get from the school, I wasn’t going to get it, and this was a guy with an impeccable reputation, and unless he was convicted of a crime, they weren’t interested,” McLaughlin, now 45 and a private investigator in Phoenix, recalled of his short phone conversation with Spanier. “When I offered to send him the tape, he said, ‘Don’t bother.’ That was his exact words.”

Bill Mahon, a university spokesman, said he could not say whether that phone call took place, and that no records were kept of calls Spanier received.

The professor was charged in 2005 with abusing McLaughlin, but the charges were later dropped.

The revelations of recent weeks were especially chilling to McLaughlin, and not just because of the horrible — and to him horribly familiar — allegations, or the suggestion that the university had shielded its own. It was also the timing: the most explosive charges — that Sandusky raped a pre-adolescent boy in the locker room showers and that university officials who were told about it failed to report it to the police — occurred in March 2002, just days after McLaughlin says he spoke with Spanier.

Until this month, there was a consensus, not only here on campus but among higher education experts nationally, that Spanier was a good president, according to interviews with dozens of students, alumni, faculty and administrators, including some who butted heads with him. He greatly expanded student enrollment and oversaw a campus building boom, elevated the university’s academic reputation, raised an enormous amount of money, and was tapped by fellow university presidents to lead a series of intercollegiate bodies.

He cut a quirky, impossibly energetic figure, helping students haul boxes into the dorms each September, donning a Nittany Lions mascot costume, performing magic tricks, running with the bulls in Spain, hosting two television shows and occasionally making use of his pilot’s license. In the evenings, he attended student social events and played washboard with a Dixieland band, then often stayed up past midnight answering e-mails.

“I can’t imagine a president of a major university being more involved in the lives of students,” said Sam Richards, a sociology professor who did not always approve of Spanier’s management. “He was everywhere.”

People who have worked with Spanier, most of whom spoke on the condition of anonymity to avoid angering the beleaguered administration, say that he was also a micromanager who centralized authority and could be overly sensitive about how internal matters might affect Penn State’s reputation.

Photo

Graham B. Spanier in 2007. He was the president of Penn State for 16 years and was known to be protective of its reputation.Credit
Hunter Martin/Getty Images

“If you’re always focused on promoting the brand and there’s no scrutiny, that leads to covering up,” said E. Paul Durrenberger, an anthropology professor nearing retirement.

Powerful Culture

Born in South Africa, Spanier grew up in the Chicago suburbs and was the first member of his family to go to college, graduating from Iowa State in 1969. By 25, he had a doctorate in sociology from Northwestern and a faculty position at Penn State. At 42, he became chancellor of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. His wife, Sandra, is a noted Hemingway scholar and professor at Penn State. They have two grown children.

At Nebraska, Spanier raised admissions standards and pressed for equal treatment of gays, drawing criticism that he was too liberal for the state. He also clashed there with a powerful and legendary football coach, Tom Osborne, during the 1992 search for a new athletic director. Osborne, according to news reports at the time, wanted to make the choice, in effect picking his own nominal boss. Spanier defied the coach and hired Bill Byrne. Three years later, Spanier returned to Penn State.

The university stands out among its sports-powerhouse peers because of the relatively high graduation rates of its athletes, and because Paterno, though well paid — more than $1 million in 2009 — earned far less than other top coaches. It also is home to the largest charity run by college students, known as Thon, which raises money for pediatric cancer research.

Penn State is a dominant presence in this state’s rural midsection, sitting in a small town that people here call, without a trace of sarcasm, Happy Valley. Newly hired faculty are struck by how many of their colleagues remain for decades.

The university’s fiercely loyal alumni descend here by the thousands for major sports events, especially football games, something Spanier embraced. He hosted a program about college sports on the Big Ten Network, attended games and spent heavily on expanding and upgrading Beaver Stadium.

Two former department chairmen said one of the expectations of their jobs is that they tailgate before football games, mingling for hours.

“The football games, that’s where the money is,” one said. “Several times a year, thousands of alumni come back, and it’s a chance to stroke them and show off to them, and I was told I should be a part of that.”

In 2004, as is now well known, Spanier and Penn State’s athletic director, Curley, went to Paterno’s house near campus to tell him that the previous season, with its 4-7 record, should be his last. Instead, Paterno told his superiors he had no intention of going.

“It’s not really a boss-employee relationship with these power coaches, not at all,” said Byrne, now athletic director at Texas A&M. “Someone like Paterno, he’s helped choose the trustees, he owns the community. When a popular coach gets fired, usually pretty soon the president and the athletic director are gone, too.”

Strict Secrecy

When Spanier returned to State College in 1995, Penn State had a star coach in women’s basketball, Rene Portland, who had a reputation for not allowing lesbians on her team, which she denied. The university had a policy barring discrimination based on sexual orientation, but Portland, many believed, continued to operate by her own rules.

A former player sued, accusing Portland of harassing her and dropping her from the team because of her perceived sexual orientation. Several former players came forward to say they had seen or experienced similar treatment, prompting questions about whether the administration knew of Portland’s actions and tolerated them.

The university investigated and found in 2006 that Portland had created a “hostile, intimidating and offensive environment.” She was fined and forced to undergo diversity training, but she kept her job. Portland resigned a year later, shortly after Penn State settled the lawsuit on undisclosed terms.

That and other court settlements have been kept secret because Pennsylvania’s public colleges are exempt from state law on open government records. As president, Spanier went to some lengths to maintain such secrecy.

When The Patriot-News of Harrisburg obtained the salaries of Penn State’s highest-paid officials, including Paterno, from the state retirement system, Spanier spent five years trying to block the release. The university lost before the pension board, the Commonwealth Court and, in 2007, the State Supreme Court.

Craig J. Staudenmaier, the lawyer who represented The Patriot-News, said he was amazed by how hard the university fought.

“It just made no sense,” he said. “Penn State guards their information very closely and jealously.”

Photo

Paul McLaughlin, a private investigator, at his office in Phoenix. He said he was abused as a boy by a Penn State professor.Credit
Joshua Lott for The New York Times

While that case was under way, state lawmakers were drafting a tougher right-to-know law. Spanier lobbied personally — and successfully — against a proposal to end the colleges’ exemption.

As well, students whose political activism threatened to embarrass the university have sometimes met harsh responses.

In 2000, Penn State hosted the National Governors Association meeting, a showcase moment for the university. Five student members of a political group were arrested by the campus police for refusing to take down a banner hung from Osmond Laboratory to promote what they called “a socially responsible alternative to the Governor’s Convention.”

“I was furious,” said William A. Pencak, a history professor. “This was the place students are always allowed to place banners, if it’s banners to honor the alumni, or support United Way, or rally for football. But when it was important political discussion, they weren’t allowed to do it.”

A group that pressures colleges not to sell apparel made with sweatshop labor had similar experiences. Members of the Penn State chapter said they tried for years to get a meeting with Spanier, with no luck. Instead, they were fined for writing anti-sweatshop messages on sidewalks and walls, though students and professors say that apolitical chalk writing was commonly tolerated.

In 2008, the group staged a sit-in at the administration building, Old Main, leading to the arrest of 31 students for misdemeanor trespassing.

“We finally got a meeting with Spanier,” said Chris Stevens, one of those arrested. “The year after the sit-in.”

Dropped Charges

McLaughlin, the private investigator who said he was abused on campus decades ago, never got that far.

In an interview last week, he said that when he was 11 to 15 years old and lived in Delaware, he was sexually assaulted by three men, in State College and on trips to other states. One man was his neighbor, and he introduced him to the others, including John T. Neisworth, a professor of education and nationally recognized expert on autistic children.

Neisworth, who could not be reached for comment, has consistently denied the accusation.

McLaughlin said he suppressed the memory for two decades. After it flooded back, he said, he was appalled to learn that Neisworth still taught at Penn State.

In 2001, he said, he called Neisworth, acting as though his memories of their time together were pleasant, and pretended to have an underage male lover. He recorded the call. In a transcript later prepared by the Sheriff’s Office of Cecil County, Md., one of the places McLaughlin said he was abused, Neisworth seems to acknowledge abusing McLaughlin and giving him alcohol.

McLaughlin sued Neisworth, leading to a settlement that he described as “six figures.” He said he also called university officials, and that one of them sent back, unopened, a package with a copy of the recording.

One of those officials, David H. Monk, dean of the college of education, said he had “no personal contact from Mr. McLaughlin at any point,” though he did hear from a member of McLaughlin’s family, and that he was not offered the recording. He added, “I did take the charges seriously and immediately determined that Mr. Neisworth’s Penn State duties did not involve direct contact with children.”

Neisworth retired in 2002, though he continued teaching a distance-education course for a few more years.

Of the states in which McLaughlin said he was abused, only Maryland permitted criminal charges more than 20 years after the events. Neisworth and his two friends were charged there in 2005, and Penn State officials told reporters at the time that it had no reason to act unless he was convicted.

But Maryland law also barred the recording of phone conversations without the consent of both parties, so the court would not allow McLaughlin’s incendiary tape into evidence. One defendant was acquitted, and the charges against Neisworth and the third man were dropped.

That was hard to take, McLaughlin said, but no harder, he asserted, than being dismissed by Spanier and other Penn State officials.

“They just didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to investigate to make sure,” he said of the university and the professor he had accused. “He was their guy.”

Tamar Lewin contributed reporting from New York.

A version of this article appears in print on November 22, 2011, on page B14 of the New York edition with the headline: Rich in Success, Rooted in Secrecy. Order Reprints|Today's Paper|Subscribe